


Alone, surrounded, he rules

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 8: Maglor rules over the Fëanorian host at Lake Mithrim during Maedhros' captivity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone, surrounded, he rules

It was odd, Maglor thought, that the primary emotion he was feeling was anger.

 

It had taken some time for emotion to kick in at all. When the news had come of the utter rout of Maedhros’ men, and the fact that of Maedhros himself there was no sign, a numbness had set in that took many days to dissipate. 

It was simply too much, too soon. 

Hadn’t their brother been with them just that morning, speaking confident, reassuring words about their successes? Hadn’t it been yesterday that their father had been with them, his eyes ferocious and unrecognizable, but the familiar warmth of his hand on Maglor’s shoulder the same as it ever was? Hadn’t it been mere days since there had been two bright heads amongst his youngest brothers instead of one? 

But no, Fëanor and Amras were both consumed by fire now, and as for Maedhros – it was best not to speculate. In the height of their anguish when they first learned Maedhros had been taken, Curufin had spat that they should pray for their brother’s death, for it would be far better than the fate he faced otherwise. Celegorm had whirled on him then, with a fury he had never before turned on his favorite brother, and struck him brutally across the face. 

“Never let me hear you say that again,” he’d snarled, and Curufin had subsided, his lip bloody and a faint flush coloring his cheeks. 

Had it been shame? 

Maglor knew that his own shame should far outweigh his brother’s. He should be ashamed, he knew, for feeling anger and resentment towards his eldest brother, now dead or worse in the depths of Angband. 

But anger it was. 

 

_You left me!_

 

-

 

 _Damn you, Maitimo_ , he thought, and pulled the crown from his head. It was a light enough thing, a simple gold circlet, but it invariably gave him a headache, a pounding tightness in his temples as the whispers of his dead father and –  _lost, lost, not dead_ , he thought fiercely – brother pressed against his ears. 

_Couldn’t you at least have taken me with you?_

At least his brothers listened to him, to his amazement, but he thought that wouldn’t last long. It was shock and grief and confusion that allowed them to turn to him and listen as he spoke. 

He  _knew_  it couldn’t last. Already he could feel the weight of all the words Curufin wanted to throw at him bit back behind his brother’s lips. Already he could see Celegorm’s confusion and impatience rising –  _Why have we not set out for Nelyo? What are you waiting for?_  Caranthir had proved an unexpected ally, standing silent and supportive at his side, but even he was growing short-tempered with inaction, snarling at his brothers over the smallest things and spending hours at night pacing the perimeter of their camp.

Maglor could still not bring himself to meet Amrod’s eyes, not truly. 

 _Was I not the first to drop the lighted torches at our father’s command?_  

Amrod watched them all like a feral thing brought only with coercion into captivity. His eyes glittered from behind the matted fall of his hair – unbraided, unbrushed, and he would allow none to touch it – and his fingers beat impatiently against the hilts of his long knives. 

_Was it my torch that set him alight? Flames from my hand that took the youngest of us, the one with the lightest heart, the brightest smile?_

 

 _Our fated one._  

 

_Shall I ever see red hair without feeling guilt?_

 

-

 

He held himself tall before his brothers, before their people. 

 _This is just another sort of performance_ , he told himself, and let his eyes settle on the horizon, let his chin lift, his shoulders straighten. He cast his voice out, letting it ring low and clear through the assembled ranks –  _Project, never shout_ , his childhood teacher had told him,  _and it shall be as if you are murmuring in the ear of the audience member in the farthest seat_. He took to braiding his dark curls back into a long plait, and wore light armor at all times. He was playing a role, he knew, and that role was his father’s heir.

He might as well look the part. 

He caught Curufin’s eyes on him, watching him carefully, and he knew the look of an eager understudy when he saw one.  _You would have been well cast_ , he thought,  _but the audience shall not know it._  

 _At least_ , he thought, studying himself in the mirror before stepping out to address the assembled host,  _at least I have his eyes. The rest is trickery._

 

-

 

The anger carried him through the days, through the arguments, through the inevitably increasing debates with his brothers that always left him weary and aching, as though he’d spent the day trying to rein in a steed too strong for him. 

 _A hard mouth and an unbroken spirit_ , he thought bitterly, as he returned to his tent and allowed his costume to slip away. He pulled the tie from his hair and let his hair fall wild over his shoulders. He pulled off the hot, ungainly armor, and dropped the circlet to the ground – before retrieving it, carefully, and laying it on the table. 

_Damn you, Maitimo._

_How I miss you._

The only person he missed as much as his older brother was his mother, though he did not allow himself to think of her, lest he wake in the night, tears streaming from his eyes. 

_Forgive us, Amil!_

He was not sure if he missed his father. It did not yet feel that he was truly lost; Fëanor remained in the shadowy corners of his mind, in the dull gleam of the golden circlet, in the echoes of his own voice as he sought to achieve his father’s mastery of hearts. 

 

_Forgive us, Atar._

 

-

 

He found himself missing, of all people, Fingon. 

 _If you were here, cousin, I could speak to someone free from guile and double meaning. I wouldn’t have to worry about projecting strength and confidence. I wouldn’t have to try and convince you I was a king, I wouldn’t have to convince you I know what I am doing, we could merely speak as we used to._  

But would Fingon ever wish to speak to him as they once had? How furious he would be, not only for their betrayal at Losgar, but for the betrayal of their unspoken agreement. 

_Nothing is to happen to Maitimo while either of us are at his side._

_I have failed in that promise._  

Perhaps, on the whole it was just as well that Fingon was not there. 

_What would you do to me, if you knew?_

 

-

 

Of course, when Fingon did arrive, hard-eyed and lean at his father’s side, the coldness and distrust in his face was far worse than anything Maglor could imagine. 

And so he arrayed himself as the Heir of Fëanor, and pulled on his king’s voice, and his golden crown, and Fingolfin listened to him with weary resignation, his three remaining children silent and accusatory at his back. 

Fingon never took his eyes from Maglor, and when finally the delegation departed for the far shore of the lake, Maglor retreated to his tent and wept, for the first time since he had been crowned. 

Celegorm came to him that night, perhaps following the same instinct that could lead him so unerringly to a fox’s hidden den or where an injured hound had dragged itself. And he held Maglor roughly, and whispered empty comforts into his hair, and Maglor wept against his brother’s broad chest and hated himself for his weakness. 

“None of the rest of us could do what you’re doing,” Celegorm said gruffly. “You are stronger than any of us.” 

 _How untrue that is,_ thought Maglor, and hurt all the more. Celegorm pushed him to bed and lay beside him, a solid, warm presence that comforted Maglor more than he wished to admit. 

“You should sleep,” Celegorm said. “You look terrible, like you haven’t slept for days. Go on, Káno, I’ll be here.” And so Maglor slept, his brother a reassuring warmth at his back, and he dreamed of music, for the first time, it seemed, in years. 

He hadn’t played since their father’s death.

 

-

 

In the morning he woke, and news came from the far side of the lake that the Nolofinwëan prince was missing. 

“Which one?” he asked, but of course he already knew. 

“Prince Findekáno,” the messenger said, and Maglor nodded and dismissed her. 

 _Does this make you stronger or weaker than I, cousin?_  

But for some reason his heart lifted. 

He took his harp then, dusty and unused, from the chest in the back of his tent, and brought it to a high point of land overlooking the lake. For the first time in many long months – years, ages – he sang. 

For the first time in many long months – years, ages – he felt once more himself. 

He was king, and hope was returning. 


End file.
